Checkmate
by HeavenOnASunday
Summary: McCoy and Spock play a very interesting game of chess.


Checkmate

"God damn it all to hell," McCoy yelled as he glanced from the finished game of chess to the smug—and very human—expression on Spock's face. "How the hell did you do that?" he demanded.

Spock raised an eyebrow. "With logic," he said in a tone that suggested perhaps McCoy should look into attaining some.

McCoy's jaw ticked as he glared at Spock. "Screw you and your logic," he muttered as he stood, pushing his chair back. "You cheated," he declared as he placed the palms of his hands on the table and leaned over it.

"How does one cheat at chess, Doctor?"

"I don't know how you did it. I just know that you did."

Dismissing McCoy's absurd accusation, Spock began to place the pieces back on the board. "If you say so, Doctor."

Crossing his arms over his chest, McCoy continued to glare at Spock and clench his jaw so tight that it began to hurt after only a few moments. Damn it all to hell, he was so tired of losing to that pointy-eared, green-blooded hobgoblin. _And so much for not feeling any human emotions_, McCoy thought as he noted the small, barely noticeable curve of the Vulcan's lips. _Smug bastard_. He needed to be taken down a couple of notches, and there was nothing more that McCoy wanted than to be the one to do it.

"Rematch," he said, unfolding his arms and sitting back down in the chair that he had vacated.

"Why?" Spock inquired, his head tilting to the side. "You have lost the last two games, Doctor, and the numbers are favorable in that you will lose this game as well. Why would you want to embarrass yourself any further?"

McCoy narrowed his eyes, the blue orbs flashing dangerously as his temper began to rise. "Listen, you little Christmas elf, I don't give a flying fuck what your 'numbers' say. Besides," he said, leaning back into his chair, his lips twitching into a smug smile of his own. "I've decided that for this game, we're going to up the ante."

"Up the ante?" Spock repeated his brow furrowing.

"We're going to make it more fun," he nodded his head at Spock, "make it more . . . interesting."

Spock's face smoothed out into one of disinterest, but he couldn't stop his eyebrow from rising as he said, "Is that so?"

"Yes," McCoy said, reaching out and grabbing his king, running his forefinger up and down the piece. "Very interesting."

"And how, may I inquire, are we going to make this particular game more _interesting_ as you say? For I have found all our games interesting. It is most interesting to see how a game of chess can turn you into an ignoramus."

Not looking at Spock, McCoy continued to stroke his finger up and down the King, slowly, evenly, never increasing the pace. "Well," he said huskily, his voice an unusual octave lower. "How about we make this a game of winner takes all?"

His voice, Spock noted, sounded as smooth as the bourbon that he drank after a long day. Spock never practiced drinking the alcohol, as it impaired his cohesiveness and his ability to think logically, but there had been one night where it had been too much for him—too much for his Human half to handle, and he had weakened and ordered a tumbler. The one glass had turned to two and the two to three and the three to a number that had impressed even the Doctor.

And while his Vulcan half would have been immune to the aftermath of the heavy drinking, his Human half had taken precedence, and he had suffered from a, as Doctor McCoy would have said, "brilliant hangover". This description was illogical because there was absolutely nothing brilliant in the act of hanging his head over the toilet and regurgitating everything that he had ate and drank in those last twenty-four hours. Needless to say, Spock had not drunk a glass of the alcohol since.

But he couldn't deny that the low octave of voice that the Doctor had just spoken in had the same affect on him as those glasses of bourbon. It warmed him in places that should not have been effected simply because of tone and intonation, it made his blood seem thick as it coursed and pumped through his veins, and his bones heavy. It was terrifying, it was fascinating, it was . . . addictive.

"Winner takes all?" Spock questioned, forcing himself to appear and sound as impassive as he normally was.

Still caressing the white wooden King piece, McCoy stared into Spock's eyes unblinkingly. His blue eyes were shining with mischief and . . . something else that Spock couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Have you ever heard of strip poker, Spock?"

Spock blinked, cocked his head. "It's a variant of poker where players remove articles of clothing when they lose bets."

McCoy nodded. "That's it in the most scientific of terms." Not breaking eye contact with Spock, he stopped his caressing of the piece, and placed it back on the board, dragging his finger slowly one last time over the very tip. "How would you like to play a game of strip chess?"

"Is this your idea of making this round more interesting, more fun, as you say?"

Crossing his arms over the table, McCoy grinned slowly. "It is indeed."

"I must say, Doctor, that our ideas of making a game more interesting are very different."

"Not scared are you?" McCoy waved a hand around Spock's room to point out that they were alone. "Afraid of being caught?"

Spock raised an eyebrow. "What would be the rules of this game?"

"I thought you would never ask," McCoy quipped. "It's quite simple. With each piece that is taken by the opposing player an article of clothing must be removed, which will be deemed by that person." He grins at Spock. "So, if by chance I take any of your pieces with my own, then you have to take any piece of clothing that I tell you to take off."

"And this works both ways." Spock states more than inquires this.

Nodding, he moves a pawn forward two spots. "Shall we begin?"

In answer, Spock moved a knight.

In another three moves, McCoy triumphed in taking the first piece. "Shoes," he said. Spock toed off one shoe and started to move one of his pieces, but McCoy reached out and grabbed his wrist. "Both of them."

"That would require for you to have attained two of my pieces, whereas you only have one."

"Shoes come in pairs; you put them both on, you take them both off. Now, do as I say." McCoy can't help but grin when Spock did.

Eyeing the board, McCoy can see Spock got through several possibilities, thinking logically of how he we would attack and how McCoy would counterattack. It was, as Spock would say, all very fascinating to watch.

Having decided his move, Spock repositioned his bishop.

Following the trail, McCoy noted that his own bishop would be taken and due to the blocking of not just one of Spock's pieces but one of his own, too, there was no way that he could move forward or backwards, and there wasn't another one of his pieces close by that he'd be able to take Spock's piece as well. His bishop would just have to take the fall. Thinking of possible future moves, McCoy slid his castle up the board a few spots.

And as McCoy predicted, Spock took his bishop with his own. "Your shirt, please."

"I make you take off your shoes but you go straight for the shirt," McCoy said as he crossed his arms and started to pull at the hem of shirt. "Interesting." He pulled the shirt over his head, and without looking to see where it landed, tossed it aside.

A few moves passed before McCoy once again was able to take one of Spock's pieces. "Now it's time to return the favor. Shirt. Off."

Spock pulled the shirt off without comment, quickly returning to the board to again take one of McCoy's pieces captive. "Undershirt." If McCoy were a betting man, he would bet that he detected a heady undertone to Spock's demand . . . and he was a betting man.

Only breaking eye contact with Spock when he pulled the black undershirt over his head, McCoy grinned at him when his chest was exposed. Dark, finely curled chest hair with just a touch of gray ran across his upper chest that then tapered off and trailed into a fine line over his stomach and disappeared from view due to the waist of his pants. Spock couldn't help but follow the trail with his eyes. Against his will, he could feel his blood begin to grow even warmer than normal.

"Like what you see, Spock?"

If he were capable of becoming embarrassed, Spock would have been, but he couldn't. But why did his cheeks feel warm then . . .?

It took a handful of moves before McCoy was able to maneuver pieces so that he was to overtake Spock's castle and add it to his collection. Spock started to reach for his black undershirt, but McCoy murmuring the word, "Pants" stopped him. Stilling, his arms still crossed to lift his shirt off. He stared across the table and chessboard at the doctor.

"I'm sorry, Doctor, I must have misheard you," he began but he stopped when McCoy interrupted him.

"You have excellent hearing, Spock."

Yes, he did. As the doctor checked his hearing for every physical before or after a mission, he knew that Spock had heard correctly. It had been illogical for Spock to pretend otherwise. Quietly, he stood and undid the button, unzipped his pants, and slid them over his hips and down his legs slowly, stepping out of them when they hit the floor.

Spock stood there, and let McCoy have his fill of him. And what a sight the doctor had to behold, too.

McCoy forced himself to not lick his lips appreciatively as he gazed up and down the Vulcan, but God was it ever a monumental effort to not do so. He couldn't, however, stop himself from leering. Had it been any other person, McCoy would have been ashamed of his unabashed actions, but it was different with Spock. It always had been.

The way McCoy stared at him—no, leered would be a more accurate of a word—excited him for reasons unbeknownst to Spock. All he did know was that he enjoyed it and he couldn't help but begin to show just how much he enjoyed it when his cock began to twitch.

"You can sit back down, you know," McCoy informed him.

Grasping the back of the chair, Spock lowered himself in the seat, and barely paying attention to what he was doing, he moved his queen. He only realized his mistake when he heard McCoy cluck his tongue against the back of his teeth. "Spock," he said as he moved his last bishop and captured the queen. "Such an _illogical_ move for you to have made."

Spock kept his face completely emotionless, but McCoy could've sworn he saw the Vulcan's jaw tick. Glancing at the board, McCoy couldn't stop the twitch of his lips that formed into a small smile. _Oh, yes_, he thought, _in a few more moves the game is mine._ He watched Spock's eyes flick back and forth across the board, trying to find a comeback. There wasn't any. He had screwed up, and no logic was going to save him.

Reluctantly, Spock moved a knight. McCoy swooped in and took it with his castle. "Undershirt," he ordered flippantly, as though he didn't care if Spock removed it or not. Spock jerked the shirt over his head, and now sat across from McCoy, save his boxers, completely naked.

For the next few moves, neither lost nor gained a single piece. It didn't worry McCoy though because he knew that he had Spock; there was absolutely no way that Spock could come back and beat him. It was game over.

It was checkmate.

McCoy delivered the final move, cornering Spock's king so that it couldn't move anywhere due to the single bishop, knight, and queen that he had left. Humming in approval, he smiled at the Vulcan sitting across from him. "What is your logic telling you right now, Spock?"

Glancing up from the board, Spock's mouth was set in a firm, unyielding thin line. His brown eyes that were usually so _aloof_ were now lit with something that he had never witnessed before in those dark orbs. He recognized the light, he had seen it in many eyes before, but never had it touched him in the way that it was now with Spock. He could be misreading it, after all, this was Spock, but McCoy's instincts were telling him that he wasn't misreading Spock, the look, or the situation that he had put them in.

_This is what you wanted_, a whisper came forth from the darkest recesses of his mind.

_No, it wasn't,_ his conscious hissed back at it.

The whisper laughed at him mockingly, and the laugh was like wisps of smoke as it conjured up repressed memories and thoughts that McCoy had had before. He could feel his heart thump against his chest hard as he realized that this wasn't all about putting Spock in his place.

It never had been.

"My logic, Doctor, seems to be failing me right now."

Cocking his head, McCoy asked, "Why?"

Spock's eyes flick from McCoy's to his lips. "Because I can only seem to think about one thing. And it is most illogical."

His lips stretched over his teeth into a hubristic grin. "Seeing as you're a Vulcan, and you faithfully practice the law of having no emotions, and where _logic_ is the Holy Grail, has anyone ever told you that sometimes, most of the time, being illogic, no matter what it's about, is fun?" McCoy narrowed his eyes. "Or do you even know what fun is?"

Slowly, Spock rose from his chair and rounded the table until he stood tall in front of McCoy. "You seem to have forgotten, Doctor, that I am half human. Though I was raised to "practice the Vulcan beliefs" as you put it, I cannot always deny my human half." Before McCoy could even blink, Spock's hands shot out, gripped him by the shoulders, and hauled him up to stand directly in front of Spock. "It would be most illogical to do so."

And then, Spock crushed his lips to McCoy's and began to thoroughly plunder it.

McCoy stood there, unmoving, his arms still by his side.

Nipping at McCoy's bottom lip, Spock pulled back just far enough so that as he spoke, his lips still moved across McCoy's mouth. "Why aren't you having fun, Doctor?" Spock bit McCoy's lip hard enough to make McCoy jerk back in pain. "Or do you even know what fun is?" he said, reiterating the doctor's words.

Blue eyes flashed with annoyance. "I know how to have fun," he said through gritted teeth. "And you're doing it all wrong." Then, he tangled his fingers in Spock's black hair, pulled his head down roughly, and began to retaliate by crushing his mouth against Spock's and refused to let up even when Spock's hands flew to McCoy's waist and dug his fingers into his sides, bruising the skin.

McCoy began walking Spock backwards toward the bed, and when the back of Spock's knees hit the edge of it, McCoy pushed Spock back onto the bed. Leaning on his elbows, Spock stared up at him, and McCoy couldn't help but grin as he stripped himself of his remaining clothes.

"Are you sure about this, Doctor?"

His face contorted. "You call me 'Doctor' one more time while we're in this bed, and I'll give you an exam that you'll feel for days." Leaning forward, McCoy nipped the lobe of a pointy ear, whispering, "And it won't be the fun kind, either."

Spock opened his mouth to reply, but instead gasped as McCoy began to nip along his jaw, to his chin, and then up to his mouth. He pushed forward to connect their mouths more fully, but only kissed air as McCoy pulled back. Once again, he pushed forward and once more, he came up empty as McCoy pulled away at the last second. Spock began to grow frustrated with each failed attempt.

"You've got to work for it, Spock," McCoy tempted him. "If you want to kiss me, then work for it, fight for it."

A rumble that sounded very much like a growl came from deep inside Spock's chest as he lashed out and grabbed McCoy's face in between his hands and jerked their mouths together.

The kiss was brutal. What it lacked in finesse, it more than made up for in passion. Tongues dueled for dominance, teeth nipped and bit lips and clacked against each other, hands wandered, nails dug into sweat slickened skin.

Using his leverage, McCoy pushed Spock down onto his back, straddled his waist, and grasped his wrists, crossing them over his head. "Keep 'em there," he warned, his voice thick.

Fingers twitching with the urge—need—to touch, Spock groaned and thrashed his head side to side, mussing the hair at the back of his head as McCoy began to kiss, nip, bite, and suck his way down Spock's chest, flat stomach, and finally—_at last_—as he pushed down Spock's boxers, his groin. Spock could feel McCoy's hot breath slide across the taunt skin of his dick. They moaned simultaneously.

"That right there is a thing of beauty, Spock," McCoy whispered, his voice thick with passion and need, his Georgian accent slipping out.

Spock went to move his hands, but McCoy shot out one of his own large hands and gripped Spock's wrists together. Staying in the same hunched over position directly above Spock's cock, he lifted his eyes. His eyes were the brightest shade of blue that Spock had ever seen. "I'm only telling you one more time, Spock. You move your damn hands again, and you'll regret it."

When he spoke, his voice rough and hoarse with desire. "What if I want to regret it? What will you do to me?"

McCoy's lips split into an amused grin. "That's very illogical of you, Spock. Maybe there is some hope for you after all."

He opened his mouth to reply, but whatever Spock was going to say came out as a loud, open mouthed groan as McCoy grabbed a hold of Spock's cock at the base, placed his lips at the head of it, hallowed his cheeks, and then slid all the way down to the base. Spock felt the head of his cock hit the back of McCoy's throat, but McCoy didn't gag, and somewhere at the back of his mind that had yet to be overtaken by passion and heat and being able to do anything else besides _feel_, Spock thought, _fascinating._

"Quit thinking," McCoy muttered as he slid back up Spock's shaft, allowing the head of the cock to _pop_ free from his mouth. "Give that damn Vulcan mind of yours a rest. Just feel."

"_Just feel_," Spock whispered. _"Just feel_."

And so he did.

He _felt_ the wet heat of McCoy's mouth as he bobbed up and down over his cock. He _felt_ the vibrations of McCoy humming against him. He _felt_ McCoy's soft palm lifting his balls. And he _felt_ his breath hitch in his lungs as he _felt_ that warm tingling sensation start at the base of his spine and spread throughout the rest of his body.

"L—Leonard, I—I . . ."

McCoy didn't answer him, but he acknowledged that he heard Spock by sucking harder and tonguing the slit of Spock's cock.

This is what made Spock _feel_ too much and made him lose all the self-control that he had left. With a cry that shattered his soul and the whisper of McCoy's name across his lips that stitched it back together again Spock emptied himself into McCoy's mouth. Behind his closed lids, white spots blinked and disappeared.

Somewhere, far, _far_ away, Spock heard his name repeated again and again. The voice sounded familiar and it took him a moment to realize that the voice belonged to McCoy and it sounded worried. Taking a deep breath and with his eyes still closed, he lifted a trembling hand and reached for McCoy's face. When he felt it cup the inside his palm, he caressed the smooth skin there, and hummed in pleasure.

"I felt," he whispered. "I felt it all."

"No shit," McCoy chuckled darkly and placed a quick kiss against Spock's palm. "I knew I was good, but damn Spock . . ."

"What?" Spock inquired.

"I've never seen anyone lose it like you did."

Spock cocked an eyebrow and hummed. His dark eyes lit mischievously which had McCoy a little worried seeing as he had never seen that look in Spock's eyes previously, but before he could do anything, he was thrown onto his own back with Spock leaning over him, his mouth hard against his own, and his deft fingers reaching down between them and grasping McCoy firmly.

The grip was firm and hard and had McCoy rolling his eyes to the back of his head. "Dear _God_," he murmured hoarsely. His body shuddered as he felt Spock lean heavily against him, putting his mouth right against McCoy's ear. His cock reared in Spock's hand when he felt the stinging nip of teeth and the soothing lick of a tongue against his ear lobe. Something was whispered in his ear, but his mind was quickly shutting off so that he could do just as he had told Spock to do—to just _feel_—and he couldn't make out what was said.

"Wh—what?"

Spock chuckled darkly and sped up his pulls and tugs. "I said, 'That's checkmate.'"

And those were the last words that McCoy heard for quite sometime as he fell back into an abyss. Though when he finally made his way back out, he insisted that it was a draw.

Spock concurred . . . it was, after all, the most logical thing to do.


End file.
